Chapter 1
Riley
Slamming my locker shut, I start my journey to my first class. First class of senior year. I keep my eyes down, trying to ignore the lingering gazes of those who walk past me, but run into a hard chest and wide arms.
“Hey there, Riley.” Ivan fluffs my hair, messing up the curls I carefully placed this morning. “Get off me, jerk.” I slap his hand, but he laughs, draping his arm around my shoulder and slouching down. “First day of senior year, huh? Let’s make it memorable.” I snicker. “You’re an idiot.” He smiles brightly.
Ivan is handsome, there’s no doubt about it. He has beautifully tanned skin and taut muscles. He’s athletic, and it shows. He has brown hair that shines like a dirty blonde when the sun hits it just right. He has dark eyes and dimples that catch your attention in an instant. It’s a shock he hasn’t had a girlfriend yet. I hear what the girls say about him, and he’s popular, but he claims he’s never been interested in those chicks. I suppose he’s waiting for ‘the one.’
Girls don’t fight over me. I’m scrawny, green-eyed, with dark curly hair. My hair is longer than the average dude’s, so people call me a chick often. I know they’re just messing, but it bothers me. While Ivan stands at a hefty 6’1, I’m 5’7. Ivan is cuddly, so sometimes when he falls asleep, he’ll gravitate towards me and wrap his bug arms around me like I’m his damn teddy bear.
If he were a chick, I’d be head over fucking heels for him. He’s everything I’d want in a girl. Once, in middle school, my hormones had me convinced I was into him, but that was fucking stupid. I’m not into my best friend, we’re both dudes. I’m not gay, that’s wrong. I just, if I could choose my dream girl, it would be one who behaved just like him.
When I was in middle school, I would dream of living in a world where I could fall for him, but that was just my stupid preteen brain. Dudes don’t date dudes, and I learned that lesson really fucking quick when my dad overheard me talking to myself in my room. If other people want to be… gay… that’s fine. But I’m not, because it’s not right. I was just young and dumb, confusing platonic feelings for romantic ones.
“Yo, dude.” Ivan calls out, slapping my back to bring me back to reality. I push down the slight uneasy, nervous feeling I get when I’m around him sometimes. But that’s normal, we’ve just been friends for so long. “Oh, sorry. I zoned out.” I blush slightly as he laughs, “I can tell. Let’s go to class.” He tries to grab my hand, but I pull back. “Seriously, dude. I know how much you love your contact, but people are going to think we’re gay, bro.” I try to laugh, and he follows suit, but there’s a weird glimmer in his eyes I’ve never noticed before, as we walk to our classroom.
It’s never been awkward between us, but it has ever since the party two weeks back. We got a little tipsy and were playing spin the bottle with a ton of chicks. Somehow, it landed on us. Everyone cheered and hollered for us to kiss, but I didn’t think he would. He leaned in, grabbed my collar, and gave me a hard kiss. My first kiss was lost to my idiot best friend. I’m still pissed at him, but mostly pissed because of the weird feeling I get when I think of it. It’s simply because I was taken off guard and tipsy, but sometimes, late at night, I read into it too much.
Walking in, we find ourselves seated beside one another. We’ve been together since kindergarten. I’ve never wholeheartedly trusted someone like I trust Ivan. I feel comfortable and safe with him. He’s an amazing friend, and I’m damn lucky he hangs with me. As class passes, he passes me notes asking about hanging out at his place after school to play on his Xbox, which I agree to.
I slide him a note that reads, “Just know I’ll beat your ass in Mario Kart,” and he laughs a little too loud, getting us yelled at on the first day. When the teacher turns her back, Ivan looks back at me with the same bright smile that lured me in on day one. The mischievous look dancing in his eyes, white teeth, and dimples on display. I hold back my laughter.
When the first period is done, we head our separate ways. He heads to the weight-lifting while I walk to the study hall. I sit and take out my textbooks, ready to start highlighting, when the book is knocked out of my hands. I look up to see Preston, the stereotypical high school bully. He’s made it his mission to target me since we met.
“Ah, what do we have here? Riley without his little owner? Doesn’t a puppy need its master?” He barks at me mockingly, and I roll my eyes. “Not sure how many times I need to say this, but I’m not a damn puppy, and Ivan is not my owner.” He laughs harshly before delivering a punch to my stomach.
Fuck, he’s never gotten physical. It’s only ever been words. I can handle words. I can’t handle this. I fall to my knees after the blow, holding my stomach, but he kicks me in the same spot, causing me to collapse onto my back with a thump. Fuck, no, no, no. What do I do? I try to cover my face, but a sharp kick is delivered to my nose before I can block it, and I feel the blood drip out continuously.
Someone has to see this, right? Someone has to help me. I bite back my tears as I try to stand, try to do anything except let him assault me, and he allows me to get up so he can slam me against the wall. “Little faggot. I bet you like this, don’t you? Disgusting.” He spits on me and drops me, making me slide down the wall. He picks up my textbook and throws it away as he leaves the library, leaving me bloody, confused, and hurt.
Tears fill my eyes, but I try to stop them. I really try. Stop, don’t cry. Don’t be a sissy. Don’t be a wuss. Man up. Don’t cry. But it doesn’t work. I fumble to take my phone out, needing Ivan right now more than ever. How will he react when he sees me? When I got beaten up in ninth grade, freshman year, for looking like a chick, he singlehandedly fought every one of the boys, and won. He got suspended, but spent his entire suspension in the chair by my hospital bed. He brought me comics and candy when I complained about the hospital entertainment and food. He’s always been so caring.
I unlock my phone and clumsily find Ivan’s messages, sending a quick message. I hope he sees it. I can’t do this by myself. I’m so fucking weak. I seriously hope no one sees me. “Please come to the library. I need you.” I reread my message, waiting for the ‘read’ to pop up under the message, signaling that he’s seen it.
After what feels like an hour sitting on the floor, hoping no one stops and sees my pitiful state, I hear heavy, rushed footsteps towards my side of the library. Out of instinct, I hide my face in my hands, but they fall away when I hear Ivan curse. “Oh, fuck, Riley. Who fucking did this to you? J-just… Come here. Let me see you.”
I try to stand, but my stomach churns, and I fear I may vomit. He notices the look on my face and reaches down, throwing my arm over his shoulder as he walks me to a teacher's bathroom. More privacy. He leaves me in the bathroom so he can gather my belongings, and I glance at myself in the mirror. My nose is steadily dripping blood, my eyes are red and glossy, and I lift my bloody shirt to see a deep purple bruise forming on my stomach.
The sight of my battered body sends me over the edge, and I fall to my knees, crawling to the toilet to vomit. I cry as I heave. So fucking embarrassing. I’m so fucking weak. At some point, I feel Ivan come behind me with a damp paper towel on my neck. He puts his hand on my back and rubs gently, coaxing me with his touch and kind words. “It’s okay,” he’d say. “It’s okay, Riley. Breathe for me. I’m here.” I choke out several “sorry’s” as I shake on the cold, hard floor.
He helps me stand and sits me against the wall on the opposite wall from the toilet. Before I realize it, he’s taking care of my nose and trying to stop the bleeding. I flinch a few times, my nose still very sore and painful, and he apologizes. For helping me. “I-I’m so sorry for being s-so weak. I c-can’t stop crying.” I hiccup, and it’s fucking humiliating.
“No, Riley. You didn’t do anything wrong. Let me take care of you now, alright? No more apologies.” He smiles softly as he lifts my shirt to examine my stomach, and I try to hide, self-conscious. His stern gaze snaps me out of it. “Don’t hide from me. Please, don’t hide from me.” He almost begs, and I relax, letting him look at the wide bruise spanning across my stomach.
He carefully takes my shirt off, watching to ensure he doesn’t hit my nose, and puts it in the sink. It’s damp with my nose blood, “I don’t have any extra clothes.” I protest, but he hushes me. “I do,” he smiles like he’s a genius. “I bring extra clothes to keep in my locker in case I get too sweaty working out. I would be happy to give you one of my shirts. Let me run and get it, okay? Lock the door, then I’m out and only open when I give the signal.” He looks me over once more before standing and walking out.
The signal is three knocks, a pause, five knocks, a pause, and four knocks. We created it in elementary school. The backstory isn’t very fun, but it’s definitely saved us more than a few times. My mom killed herself when I was 6, and my dad became a raging alcoholic and druggie. Ivan’s mom was kind, but seldom home because of work. His dad was like mine. Our fathers would hit us for the smallest things, but he always got the worst of it. One night, he snuck out and came to my window. I’m lucky my bedroom is on the first floor, or else it would never have worked. He knocked on my window for three straight minutes until I opened it and checked. He was standing there, shorts and a t-shirt in the cold, barefoot, with a bloody face. He climbed through my window, got cleaned up, and stayed the night at my house. It was the first time of many that one of us had to escape our houses. We were nine.
After that night, we devised a knocking pattern in case one of us ever needed it, and we have. We sneak into one another’s rooms when our dads get too much to handle. As Ivan’s gotten older, his dad stopped hitting him, fearing Ivan’s size. Ivan could crush him, but he’s too fucking nice. It’s sickening how much Ivan wants him and his dad to get along, but it will never work for him. My dad still beats me sometimes, but he doesn’t do as much damage as he used to. I don’t care about him; in fact, I hate my father, but I can never bring myself to call the damn cops.
I hear the familiar knocking and jiggle the door open, Ivan rushing in immediately and sitting on the floor with me. He pulls me into his lap like I weigh nothing, and I struggle against him. This is so humiliating. I know he just wants to help, but I’m so fucking embarrassed. He twists me so I’m sitting on his lap and facing him while he daps at my nose with a cloth he probably stole from the gym showers.
As he cares for me, I can’t help the way my heart rate increases, or the way my hands get sweaty. It’s just because no one ever cares for me. My dad never did, and I can’t remember enough of my mom to know what she did or didn’t do. It’s just his actions that make my heart race. I run my eyes over his face, noting the concern laced in his features along with barely contained anger.
“Ivan…” I start softly, and he pauses, waiting for me to continue. “Don’t chase after him. It’s not worth getting in trouble over.” He scoffs and moves to clean blood off my chest. I flinch at the cold cloth on my chest and fight the urge to squirm away. He takes his time rubbing off the dried blood, cleaning me inch by inch in a way that makes me feel odd.
He cups my cheek with his hand and rubs away the last of my tears, making me hyper-aware of the fact that I just cried like a fucking baby. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who to call.” He pulled me into a hug, resting my head on his shoulder. “Riley, you can always call me. I’ll always be there. I swear, pinky promise.” He sticks his pinky up, and I giggle as I interlock his with mine, holding it there for a moment before he scoots to sit up.
When he straightens his back, he puts his shirt over my head, and I realize how much bulkier than I he is. His shirt hangs off my small frame in a way that makes me self-conscious. He lifts me off the floor, helping me to my feet as he takes his phone out. I see him dial a number and put the phone to his ear, holding up a finger to his lips.
I hear illegible words from the other side before Ivan cuts the voice off. “I get it, Natalie, but I need you to come pick up Riley and me. Something happened, and I need to bring him home.” I try to interrupt, but he puts his finger against my lip. The same finger that touched it. I flinch back, grossed out by my own thought.
Natalie is Ivan’s older sister. She just turned 23, while Ivan and I are 18. She is a receptionist at a local publishing firm after years of working to escape their father’s house. Ivan and I are both not allowed to own a car, as our fathers think we’ll bolt the moment we can. They are right about that, but we are fucking adults. We deserve that right.
I hear Natalie ramble about something before Ivan says thanks and hangs up. “She’ll be here in ten. Let’s wait here.” He slides down the wall to sit and pats the floor next to him. “Tell me what happened.” I know it’s not a question, but I shrug it off as I fall beside him. He leans over, head on my shoulder, and speaks more softly this time.
“Please, tell me what happened.” I sigh, putting my head back to rest against the wall. “Preston cornered me. That’s all.” “What’d he say?” I roll my eyes. “Does that really matter?” He sits up to look at me. “To me? Yes, it does.” I smile and can’t help the laughter bubbling up. “What is it with you and your protective streak? I swear you just want a reason to fight.”
He frowns, eyes crinkling as his gaze lingers on my bruised nose. “I don’t just want to fight, Riley. And I’m only protective when it comes to you.” He says like it’s obvious, and I brush him off, dismissing him without fully comprehending. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve been protecting me for long enough. You’re my best friend, but you don’t have to fight all my battles, you know. I can handle it now and then.”
“Then why did you call me? Could you handle it then, Riley?” He asks, frustration seeping into his usually cheery tone. I freeze, taken aback by his words, and turn to truly face him. I can see the anger burning in his eyes and pull back slightly. “You don’t fucking get it.” He sighs and stands up, brushing his pants. Get what?
“I don’t mind fighting your damn battles, but stop acting like you don’t need me.” Ouch. I glare at him, wondering where the hell he got the audacity. “I don’t need you, Ivan,” I tell him, blankly, and I see the flicker of surprise and sorrow flash in his eyes. “I appreciate when you help me, but I don’t fucking need you. I could do this shit on my own.”
His jaw tightens, and he faces the wall, refusing to look at me. “Then why don’t you? Why do you rope me in if you don’t need me?” He says, defeated, and my anger dissolves in an instant. “Ivan, I didn’t mean it like that.” He holds his hand up. “No, I get it, man. Sorry, I overstepped. Let’s wait outside for my sister. I need some air.”
He hoists up both of our bags and walks out, leaving me sprinting to catch up behind him. Did I upset him that much? I didn’t mean to, not really. I was just mad. When we get outside, he leans against a tree and scrolls on his phone while I fiddle with my hands. “Ivan… I really didn’t mean it that way. You-I mean, well, I do need you.” I admit hesitantly, seeing his smug smirk forming before I finish the last word.
“You do, huh? Why’s that?” Bastard. “You’re strong and loud, but somehow soft and kind. You always have been. It pisses me off that I can’t be like that. You piss me off when you flex your damn muscles knowing I don’t have any.” I blush as I admit my jealousy, and he chuckles. “Aw, poor baby. Come on, muscles aren’t all that, anyway. I like your body the way it is.” I roll my eyes, ignoring the way his taunting sent a shiver down my spine.
“Oh, fuck you, creep.” I groan, and he winks, “Time and place, baby.” Bastard. That’s been our little inside joke for about two years, when I got drunk, threw up on him, and cursed him out for trying to bring me home. When I woke up with the worst damn hangover, and he reminded me what happened, obviously, I said ‘fuck you,’ but he responded with that stupid line and thought it was the funniest thing possible.
We wait for his sister to pick us up, and when she does, she dotes on me and asks all sorts of questions about my well-being. I get flustered, embarrassed that someone saw me so battered, and happy someone cares enough to ask, but my mood shifts when I see Ivan’s hands balled in fists on his lap, his eyes staring out the window with a scowl on his face. Wonder what that’s about.
She drops us off at my house, and Ivan carries our stuff in, unlocking the door himself. “I can do this by myself. You don’t need to watch over me.” I remind him. “You’re the one who said you needed me.” He teases, and I feel my cheeks flush. “Asshole,” I mutter, and he laughs while raiding my fridge. I try not to stare at him while he’s not looking, but I am unable to control my wandering eyes. I wonder what’s changed. Something feels different, but I don’t know what it is.
